An account of 6 months of volunteer teaching and orphanage work in what promises to be one of the most rewarding and beautiful places on the planet.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Home Stretch
Monday, June 13, 2011
T-minus 27 days until I can have a cheeseburger

Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Trip To Tanga
Friday, April 15, 2011
Halfway through!

Thursday, March 31, 2011
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Emily vs. Centipede








Sunday, March 20, 2011
Rainy season- maybe.
This week it rained.
As we rode in on the bus in the morning, the clouds ahead were just a little darker than usual. It was clear that they wouldn’t be able to save their rain to tease us for another day.
I had gotten the good seat on the bus and fell asleep quickly. I awoke just as we were pulling into the schoolyard, and I pulled my arm off the bus windowsill to find it soaked and chilly (something that I can promise you hasn’t happened here yet). I felt drops on my face too, and when I looked out the window it was pouring the sort of rain that promises to stay awhile. Even still- it felt like if I moved or breathed the wrong way, the rain would stop and we’d be doomed to another three weeks without rain.
With the rain comes cool weather. I know that I ranted for months before I left for Africa about how much I was excited to be in weather that didn’t involve mittens and two pairs of socks, but the arrival of even a few hours of cool weather was, in a word, awesome. I’m not ashamed to admit that I can handle the heat a lot less effectively than anyone else here. When the temperature here drops below 80 degrees, people don sweaters and jackets. And, for reasons that until recently were unfathomable to me, Africans drink hot tea three times a day.
The whole tea-drinking thing used to baffle me. I always end up sweating after drinking it- sweating like I’ve been presented with a Calculus exam on threat of losing a finger for every wrong answer. However, I was recently reading a book that my dear friend Richard sent me from home, called “House of Sand and Fog”, and one of the main characters, an Iranian ex-general, was speaking of the funny looks he got from fellow construction workers in California when he would drink hot tea from his Thermos. He wrote ‘…But they do not know what I do about the heat, that there must be a fire inside you to match the one around you.” It sort of made sense. The next day I decided not to take tea, and not only was I groggy with caffeine deficiency, I was soaking with sweat a few hours later.
African culture (or at least what I’ve witnessed so far in Dar Es Salaam) is full of little surprises like that. For instance, the time here is a little different; aside from the 7-hour time difference, I mean. The first time I asked “Saa ngapi?” (what time is it?) around lunchtime and got the answer “Saa nne” (eight-o-clock), I was thoroughly confused. The Swahili system of time begins at 7:00am, starting at 1:00, then 8am is considered 2:00, 9am is 3:00, and so on. While I probably won’t get used to it, it makes sense for a society that for the most part parallels with a day and night schedule.
Swahili greetings are different from American ones as well, language difference aside. I know that for most Americans, the only recognized Kiswahili word is “Jambo”, and maybe “asante” or “simba”. But “Jambo” isn’t at all a correct way to greet someone. African culture places a lot of importance on respect for your elders. There are three different ways to greet someone here: Hujambo, Mambo, or Skamoo.
The first one, “Hujambo” (Hoo-djyAHm-bo) is used to greet someone much younger than you. For example, I greet the kids at the school with “Hujambo!”, and their reply is “Sijambo!” (they’re usually giggling when they say it, because it’s hilarious to watch the mzungu try to speak Kiswahili).
To address someone close to your own age, you say “Mambo!”, to which they can reply a number of things- “Mzima”, “Poa”, “Safi”, “Shwari”, and sometimes “Fresh” (I always think of Will Smith in parachute pants when someone says this).
This is where it gets tricky. In America, if you insinuate someone is old, they get offended, even if you’ve just checked their I.D. because they’re using a check at the grocery store with the names “Florence” and “Opie” on it, and they’re buying prune juice and reminiscing about using stone and chisels back in “my day” when it was always snowing and everywhere you needed to go was inconveniently uphill. So when I first learned to say “Skamoo”, I used it sparingly, only saying it to the truly ancient. But after I got a few dirty looks from mothers after saying “Mambo”, I used it whenever I was in doubt that someone might be older than me. The correct reply is “Marahaba”, and they might greet you in return with “Hujambo”.
Food is another unavoidable minefield of opportunities to commit social faux-pas. If someone offers you food, it is considered highly impolite and disrespectful, and also selfish, to turn it down (the rationale, which is understandable, is that if you turn down food, you are also turning down the obligation of preparing food for them someday in return). However, there are a few precautions I took with eating before coming here that weren’t necessary. For instance, when I left, the belief was that in the society I was entering, doing anything with the left hand is dirty and inappropriate. This isn’t true.
Every household and restaurant I’ve eaten at has shared the experience of dining sans utensils. Even beans (maharage) and chopped spinach (mchicha). The food “ugali” is often used as a sort of edible replacement as a spoon, rolled in the palm and pressed in the middle with the thumb to make a bowl. I am always the only one at the table timidly pinching my food up to avoid getting my hands dirty; everyone else dives right in, emerging from dinner looking like potters at the wheel. I can’t say this is a bad idea; I love thinking that there are less dishes to do.
The traditional dress is my favorite part of African culture. There are kangas, kitenges, vitenges, and mashonos, and many more the words for which I haven’t learned yet. Kitenges are my favorite. I’m always in awe of how pretty they are- Mama Kawishe always looks very regal in hers, which are always colorful and elegant. Recently, she told me what my birthday present is- she is having two vitenges tailored for me, which I am very, very excited about. I went to the tailor on Saturday with Pepy to pick out the designs and material, and they should be ready by my birthday, at which point you can all expect a few pictures.
Anyway- signing out. I promise the delay in posting won’t be so long again, and I apologize for keeping my wonderful readers waiting. I want to shout out to a few people, once again:
My parents, who I am thankful don’t mind the outrageous international calling fees and whose calls and letters I am always happy to get.
My grandparents, for the loving emails that I adore and for being the best Nana and Papaw in the world.
ES, SW, KW, JH, DB, CD, DL, JP, and all my friends and mentors at home, for keeping me sane and not too lonely.
Richard, for being awesome and sending me all these excellent books!
And, although they won’t read this, my host family the Kawishes and Pepy, for keeping me happy, safe, and quite well-fed since I’ve been here.
Kwa Heri!
Emily
PS: Just a friendly notice- I would appreciate if the comments board was reserved for friendly messages and constructive criticism. If anyone has issue with what I write, please feel free to contact me privately. Thanks, and happy blogging!
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Traffic
It is a necessity, obviously, that I be in traffic every now and then. But I can assure you that of all the dangers of Africa you may read about or hear about (snakes, insects, big mammals, guerillas, malaria, etc.), driving in Africa is by far the most lethal. The ticket books of the Woodfin Police would probably explode with excitement if they could see a Tanzanian intersection at rush hour.
Before we look at the finer aspects of navigating African traffic, let’s take a look at the handy diagrams I’ve made for you. This first one is showing the physical aspects and obstacles you may run into, without the added headache of dealing with other vehicles:

As you can see, it’s a little treacherous. Lets say you are driving to work in the morning. You leave your house at just the right time, you’ve got some Rick Astley or Celine Dion playing on the radio, and you’re looking forward to what promises to be a fulfilling day at the office/market/factory.
You get about as far as where a mailbox would be, if Africans had mailboxes, and all of a sudden your pleasant morning drive has morphed into Need 4 Speed: Most Wanted Offroad Edition, except everyone is in an advanced stage of drunkenness and are driving as though a rabid animal is attacking their face.
There are potholes the size of cows, actual cows, chickens, children, pedestrians, and the opposite of cow-sized potholes, whatever you’d like to call them (the word ‘bumps’ just sounds so tame…), and miscellaneous .
The potholes and bumps are the worst part. Since I ride the bus in the mornings with the students, we have to drive into some of the neighborhoods to pick up kids at their houses. The bus driver floors it over the bumps, making them the most obnoxious part of my day. Most of you know I am not a morning person, so I would like to take the opportunity of the 1 ½ hour bus ride to get some extra sleep, except it’s hard to sleep when you’re occasionally also airborne.
Now let’s take a look at navigating traffic on these roads.

When I first arrived home from the airport in Pepy’s car, I had to check the seat to make sure I hadn’t left fingernail marks. At first glance there is no discernible organization to the way people drive here. It’s literally the world’s biggest game of chicken- the train of thought for most drivers is, if there isn't a space big enough for your vehicle, force your way through until someone backs down. And amazingly, it usually works, or at least, I haven't witnessed an accident yet.
Because there aren’t any traffic police in Tanzania, you can pretty much get away with whatever you want on the road. There aren’t any lines on the roads, not that it matters, because the road is usually so covered in cars and people that the asphault/gravel could be painted pink with orange polka dots and no one would ever know.
However, the price of getting in an accident is very high. Although the police rarely catch people who cause accidents, the public usually take matters into their own hands. I’ve heard horror stories of drivers who cause terrifying fatal accidents fleeing the scene for fear of being beaten to death, or worse, drivers being killed by other drivers over fender benders. Just as a thief in the market will be beaten to death if caught, a careless driver will suffer the same fate.
There are very few traffic signs or signals in Africa. I’ve seen about three traffic lights, and people pay very little attention to them. The only effective means of controlling traffic that I’ve seen was a crossing guard. Mama Kawishe said that crossing guards make the most money of any kind of policeman in Dar Es Salaam, and I can see why; you wouldn’t catch me out there doing their job.
Mom, if you think my driving is bad, please don't come to Africa.
Next week: African socializing
Thanks to Allie Brosh and her blog Hyperbole and a Half for inspiring the drawings! And a shout out to Richard, my liberated friend from the produce department at Ingles, for being super thoughtful and sending me some much-needed reading material!!!
Another shout out to Aimee Buchanan for just being awesome and being my metaphorical Dumbledore. :)
Some more to some special teachers who need some recognition: Mrs. McGuire and Mrs. Szymanski, who have both been very big role models for me and wonderful supporters of my trip so far.
And of course, my loving family, Mom and Dad and Eli and Evie (all the Schenkels, really), Nana and Papaw, and Aunt Helen and Uncle Adam and Peyton and Patterson.
I love you all so much- promise to post again soon!!!
Kwa Heri,
Emily
Monday, February 21, 2011
Hospital Visit
It goes without saying that if you spend 6 months in Africa after having gone 20 years without spending more than a couple of weeks outside of the same small town, you will probably get sick. In all honesty I’ve been lucky- I made it through a full month without getting anything worse than a nosebleed.
I hadn’t been feeling so hot this past weekend. Well, that may be a poor choice of words- I hadn’t been feeling so great this past weekend. It started on Thursday afternoon, just the normal sick feeling- headache, congestion, stomachache, sore tonsils, and that horrible achy feeling that makes your skin crawl when you move or touch things, including the bed, the covers, and air. However, the normal sick feeling doesn’t feel so normal when I can hear the voice in my head taunting, “Malaria! Ebola! Sleeping Sickness! Zombie Virus!”
By Friday morning, I legitimately felt like I was dying. So when I finally succumbed to Mama Kawishe’s most guilt-producing looks of sympathy and agreed to go to the hospital, I had to brace myself just a little bit. She was comparing my symptoms with those of malaria, and was convinced that I had contracted the disease. I was too, a little- it is a practice in futility to try and avoid all the mosquitoes, because they’re everywhere, and if my memory serves, the malaria medicine isn’t a 100% prevention guarantee.
My first thought was that since malaria is a blood disease, the test to determine malarial infection would be a blood test. Despite my dad’s and Papaw’s most furtive attempts to turn me from needle-fearer into future-surgeon, I still cringe at the sight of a needle. And if they just hurt medium-amounts in America, surely in Africa they’re the size of bamboo shoots?
Upon arriving at the hospital (TMJ, a privately-owned place in Kawe), we parked the car and walked into the outpatient waiting room, which is also the inpatient waiting room and also the emergency room.
Literally the very first thing I saw upon walking up the ramp into the building was a gurney being pushed out to a large van by two nurses. A white sheet covered the body on the stretcher almost completely, although a pale, sallow white arm was exposed. Aside from seeing an open casket once, this was the first time I’d ever seen a dead body in real life, and as I was already nervous this didn’t help at all.
We entered the waiting room, which was hot and humid even with the open doors and presence of several oscillating fans. We were instructed to wait in a long line to present name and insurance information and be given further instructions, and Mama Kawishe, being the gracious and kind host mother she is, told me to sit (read: collapse) on one of the chairs in the waiting area while she waited in the line for me.
The room smelled like dust and tension. It had the same décor of the Titanic- marble floors, eloquently designed ceiling tiles- but it was obviously old, outdated and in need of maintenance. The whole place had a tinge of yellow to it, as though smokers lived there. There were a lot of people waiting, crowded onto the red plastic chairs, and in the middle of the waiting area there was a bored and irritable-looking nurse sitting with a stethoscope and pressure cuff, her feet propped up on the scale in front of her.
She was painting her nails a poisonous green color and watching the overhead TV, which was repeating movie trailers for “Unstoppable”, “Stone” and “Due Date”, all movies I am now interested in seeing (or perhaps it was just the effect of seeing such a plethora of mzungus on the screen). Every once in awhile a prevention ad for malaria and tobacco use would pop up, or else an ad for a nearby boutique.
By the time I was adequately sure I knew the film progression by heart, Mama Kawishe was at the front of the line and we were soon directed into a small room just off the waiting area.
A young Arab woman sat at the desk in the room, and to my relief she spoke English with a fine American accent. In most situations I wouldn’t care about the language or accent with which someone spoke, but when I’m asking about needles and sterilization I want to be perfectly sure that I am heard correctly.
She asked about my symptoms, medical history, prescripton drugs, and other routine subjects, and then she examined my mouth and ears.
“It’s probably not malaria,” she said, setting down her shiny-ear-looking-thingy and pulling some prescription papers out of a box on her desk, “but I want you to get a blood test to be sure-“
I whimpered a little.
“-and I’ll order a blood pressure test-“
I thought of the irritable-looking nurse outside.
“-and then you just bring the results right back to me and we’ll see what’s wrong.” She handed me two prescriptions, one that just said “BS” and one that just said “BP”, and a little purple object a little larger than a pen cap. Upon further examination I realized it was the needle with which I was going to be stabbed momentarily, encased in protective plastic.
I went and sat tentatively on the edge of the chair next to the irritable-looking nurse, who waited a full fifteen seconds after I sat down to draw her eyes from the TV screen and acknowledge that I was there and in need of her stethoscope-wielding services. She (grudgingly, I thought) strapped the cuff on and, after inflating the thing to painful capacity, took her time in getting the stethoscope to my arm and releasing the air in the cuff. I could see the veins on the back of my hand starting to pop up, which almost never happens, because I think my veins like to stay hidden where needles can’t find them.
After the nurse scribbled a large fraction onto the note that said “BP”, and looked at the other one and pointed me down a long corridor, where a faded yellow sign hung from the ceiling and said “LAB”.
At the door to the lab, I waited until I saw someone that looked professional enough to give my “BS” paper to. A young man in jeans and a button up T-shirt took it and steered me into the lab room, plopping me down into a chair and taking from me the purple needle-holder.
A large man appeared at the door, leaning against the door frame and blocking the exit.
The men inside the lab room bustled around, looking into microscopes and arranging tubes with yellow or dark red contents inside them. The lab was a sunny room, although it had the same old and yellowing feel that the waiting room had to it. Had you removed all the people, it could be the sort of place people use in horror movies about abandoned hospitals (the movie Session 9 comes to mind, if anyone is interested in that sort of thing).
No sooner had I sat down than the man grabbed my hand and started attacking my finger with the cotton swab. I remembered the size of the needle I’d handed him and my exact thoughts were, “NO WAY IS THIS GUY GOING TO STICK THAT NEEDLE UP MY FINGER. I’d rather have malaria, thanks.” (To be fair, these were the thoughts I had about polio, yellow fever, typhoid, tetanus, and influenza when I had to get those shots from the health department before my trip).
He put the needle in a sinister-looking blue thing that at the time looked like it should be used to tranquilize bears at a zoo. My faint request that he put on some plastic gloves went unheard, though when I looked around the room I couldn’t even see a box of them.
He brought the death-needle closer to my hand and I literally pulled my hand back and looked him dead in the face.
“What is going to happen here?! What are you going to do?!”
He just grabbed my hand back, and said “No pain! No pain!” very fast, and jabbed my finger with the blue thing.
I’ll be honest, it didn’t hurt a bit, it was just one of those spring-loaded needles they use to type your blood at a donation site, but I had braced myself for pain akin to having my finger removed with pliers. In my defense, I think it was really unnecessary for them to hand me a two-inch-long needle when all they needed was the 1/8th of an inch at the end, and then let me sit there and fret about it for ten minutes.
The man wiped my blood on a little clear plastic plate and gave me a cotton ball to stick on the end of my finger. I sat outside the lab room on a red plastic chair next to a set of very young twin girls (both holding cotton balls to their fingers) and their rather large mother. I grinned at the twin next to me.
“My finger has a heartbeat,” I said to her, smiling, knowing fully well that she couldn’t understand me. She looked at me a little funny and mumbled “Sijambo” and turned back to her mother. If my mom had been there, I know she would have probably snorted and laughed, because Elf is one of her favorite movies. I didn’t eat the cotton ball, though.
It took about twenty minutes to get my lab results back (doodles, I thought, because I couldn’t read the writing; way to perpetuate a stereotype, doc) and then I was back in the Arab doctor’s office.
“Your blood test came back negative for malaria, although you did have a high nerophlosmopippydoopedoodah count-“ (whatever that is) “-which does indicate an infection, so I’m going to prescribe you some antibiotics, and some anti-histamines for your congestion, and some painkillers…-.”
She handed me a sheet with the prescriptions on it, we thanked her, and we left. The pharmacy is conveniently located in the waiting room, which I think is another thing America needs to seriously pick up on.
The entire visit cost me about $18 (25,000 TSH), and that’s without medical insurance- mine isn’t accepted in Tanzania except for emergency visits. To put this in perspective, though, $25 is a good half of what most people get paid in a week in Dar Es Salaam. Additionally, this particular hospital is privately owned and operated, and is in quite better shape than a government-run hospital, which would be cheaper but also less safe and less efficient.
The Arab doctor explained to me that while the building doesn’t look very nice, they do their absolute best to make sure that their treatments and equipment are completely sterile, and they don’t re-use needles. She told me that that much can’t be said for all of the hospitals in Dar, though, and some of the more rural hospitals will lie if you ask whether their equipment is sterile.
All in all, though, I had expected a lot worse. It was an overall positive experience and I will be using TMJ as my regular hospital in Dar, when I inevitably get sick again or get mauled by a hippo.
Next time: Discussing a topic of your choice! I’ve had a few suggestions already, but feel free to comment and suggest more.
Oh, and I'm fine now, by the way. :)
Love you Mom and Dad J Eli, excellent job on your Silver Key in the art show- I’m so proud, I hope you never give up the artwork! Miss you tons Nana and Papaw, I love you so much!
Kwa Heri,
Emily
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Bombs in Dar
If you watch the world news closely, you may have seen that there were some bomb explosions in Tanzania.
http://www.cnn.com/2011/WORLD/africa/02/17/tanzania.bombings/index.html?hpt=Sbin
I plan on writing more to put in the blog tonight but I’d like to address this first so that I don’t lose any details as time goes on.
Around 9:30 last night, I was sitting in the dining room with Mama Kawishe helping her with her English class homework. I was just about to point out how prepositions are used when we both heard and felt a large BOOM, coming from what felt like right outside the house. The curtains blew inside the house as though someone had directed a giant fan at them, and we could feel the explosion reverberate in our chests, not unlike the feeling one gets when standing too close to a subwoofer. The windows that were shut rattled and the floor shook beneath our feet. It sounded as though someone had dropped a mattress flat on the porch right outside; it sounded very close, or else very loud.
We were running on generator power at the time, and my first thought was that the generator had exploded. Seconds after we felt the first blast, though, there was a second, and Dada came running into the room, looking petrified and speaking very rapidly in Swahili, pointing outside. Mama Kawishe and I both jumped up and hurried outside, where everything looked normal. We stood for a few moments trying to figure out what was happening, when there was another blast and I, standing in the open-air outside kitchen, felt it much more vividly and went back inside.
Jackson was just sitting at the big dining table inside, and didn’t seem to think anything bad was happening. I asked him if he knew what was going on, and he just said simply, “Bombs.”
To a small town girl in Africa for the first time, this is about as reassuring a statement as “Glenn Beck just got named supreme dictator of the world!”
After a few minutes of me shooting him dirty looks and hissing “This isn’t funny! What’s going on?”, Jackson told me that it was probably a bari, or military bomb storage warehouse, that had blown up, which happens when bombs are too old and not disposed of properly. He said it had happened once before, a couple of years before, and that several people died and it destroyed several homes.
The blasts went on like this for several hours, and stopped around midnight. When I boarded the school bus this morning, Mr. Mchombe (the teacher who sits on my left while the bus driver sits on my right) told me that there were 10 reported deaths, and over a hundred injuries from the blasts from the night before. I was a little taken aback by this news, and he went on to explain that the government will probably not give decent compensation to those affected, or provide enough money to replace whatever homes may have been destroyed.
At the school, all the teachers were talking about the blasts. Around 9am, we could hear more booms in the distance; whether this was more rogue bombs or a controlled detonation of the remaining weapons, I don’t know. I wasn’t fond of the situation at all, and chose to put in my headphones and let the score to Inception be my soundtrack for grading papers. I was jerked to attention around 11am by another teacher, who told me that the radio had just informed everyone that three of the largest bombs were about to be detonated. The other teachers were crowded around the windows to watch, but soon after, the radio announced that there would be no new detonations.
The official report so far is that 20 people have been killed and somewhere around 125 injured, a dozen of those in serious condition. One of the other teachers at the school, Mr. Moses, has a close relative in the hospital from the blasts. The airport was shut down, and several cellular service providers sent text messages out to their clients in Swahili, giving information about unclaimed children at police stations and advising everyone to be calm.
For the sake of my grandparents and other concerned relatives- I am fine. The blasts happened 6 miles south of me, much closer to the airport. As I am typing this, the military is investigating the situation and inspecting other bari to be sure that this incident isn’t repeated. If anyone now feels deterred from visiting the country, let me assure you that this is an isolated incident and that Tanzania remains one of the most peaceful and stable countries in Africa.
Will post again very soon with more news about the rainy season!
Love you Nana and Papaw, Miss you so much!
Mom, Dad, and Eli- I love you and miss you very much. Hope to talk to you all again soon!
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Still Worth It.
